


Another Cog in the Murder Machine

by Nokomis



Category: Bandom, Glee, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Crack Pairing, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I met the drummer of My Chemical Romance in a drum circle at Daytona Beach. Spring break, 1996. We had a brief affair.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Cog in the Murder Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Don't judge me, it's _canon_.

Bob shouldn’t have answered the phone.

“Bob Bryar? Coach Sue Sylvester here,” came a curt, crisp voice that hadn’t changed in the slightest from the last time Bob had heard it, back on Daytona Beach as he was kicked out of his own hotel room as Sue called after him, “Our business here is done. I’ll send you my dry-cleaning bill.”

“Coach Sylvester,” Bob said warily.

“I need your assistance in a little matter of national importance,” Sue said. Bob waited patiently for her to get to the point. “The New Directions must not sing a My Chemical Romance song.”

“I didn’t know erections could sing,” Bob said, confused.

“Focus, buddy,” Sue said. “None of your dirty talk.”

“You know I’m not actually in My Chemical Romance anymore, right?” Bob pointed out. “I don’t really have any say…”

“You have say where I say you have say, blondie,” Sue said sharply. “I am coaching a show choir, and my rival group is attempting to perform a My Chemical Romance song, which you will stop. If you need motivation, fine. Their director has a puppy mill in his craft room. He is at war with PETA. And I have a bunch of photographs from a certain night in Daytona that will be emailed to TMZ unless you comply.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bob said, but Sue had already hung up.

*

Bob decided to call Frank, since he figured the whole PETA angle would make it an easy conversation. Plus, he was pretty sure just the words ‘show choir’ would set Gerard off on a huge ramble about Peter Pan or green leggings or something else that Bob was completely uninterested in.

When Frank answered, Bob immediately regretted not calling Ray.

“Did you know you can put _puppies_ on your rider?” Frank was so excited that he kind of sounded like a puppy himself.

“Why would you want to?” Bob asked. “Wouldn’t that be exploitative of puppies?”

“ _Puppies_ ,” Frank repeated. “Cute, furry little puppies with their warm soft paws, Bob. Puppies.”

“Is there someone else I can talk to?” Bob asked. “Someone who isn’t in puppy love?”

“I’m just saying that if Gerard can get his diva on with drapery and candles, why can’t I get a motherfucking puppydog?”

“Things have really changed since I left the band,” Bob said dryly. “But speaking of puppies! I need you guys to send out a cease and desist letter to a high school show choir.”

“I fail to see the connection to puppies,” Frank said. “Wait, are we ceasing and desisting all show choirs? Because that’s kind of a charitable act for mankind. And possibly puppykind.”

Bob could hear Gerard in the background saying, “What the fuck, Frankie, you can’t suppress freedom of expression like that.”

Sometimes he really missed those dudes.

“Just the one,” Bob said. “I’m kind of being blackmailed into this, so I would appreciate it.”

“I’m putting you on speaker,” Frank said, and Bob got to hear Frank yell, “Bob motherfuckin’ Bryar on speakerphone, wanting to talk about show choirs!”

There was a lot of rustling after that, and Bob pictured the entire band huddled around the phone, eager to hear his thoughts about glee clubs.

“Why do you hate joy, Bob Bryar?” Gerard demanded.

“Glee,” Mikey corrected. “He hates glee.”

“I don’t hate any sort of happiness!” Bob protested. “I am being blackmailed by a nefarious cheerleading coach into getting My Chem to ban a glee club from singing ‘Sing’ because _she_ hates joy. Or something. I’m hazy on the details.”

“How is she blackmailing you?” Ray asked. Ray always wanted to dirt. Bob was completely convinced that Ray’s hair was _full of secrets_. He was probably lucky that he hadn’t been hit by a tour bus while he was doing his My Chem tour of duty.

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be effective blackmail material, would it?” Bob pointed out.

“Dude,” Mikey said. “We lived in a van together. We probably have way better blackmail material than a random cheerleading coach.”

“I had a brief affair with her in Florida,” Bob admitted. “She may have some incriminating photos of me in a sailor outfit.”

“They can’t be worse than some of our photoshoots,” Ray said levelly.

“That’s what you’d think,” Bob said, because he sure as fuck wasn’t going to draw them a mental picture, because with Gerard involved, the mental picture would turn into a panel in a widely-read comic book.

“We aren’t going to deny teenagers their chosen form of creative expression, Bob,” Gerard said earnestly. “Without the gift of song in their hearts, who knows what sort of trouble they could get into?”

“Look at us,” Frank said. “Without songs in our hearts, we slashed tires, committed Disney-related piracy and appeared on Sally Jesse Raphael.”

“I did fine,” Ray said.

“See?” Mikey said. “If they don’t sing our song, they might relive Ray’s sad teenage years.”

Bob was pretty sure those sounds were Mikey and Ray getting into a slap fight. “There are other songs in the universe. And I heard their director has a puppy mill in his craft room.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” Frank said, “let’s take down those underage fuckers.”

He could still hear Gerard talking about the therapeutic benefits of singing out your feelings as he hung up.

*

“The letter should arrive today,” Bob informed Sue a week later.

“Outstanding,” she said, sounding positively chipper. Bob was suspicious.

“I need those pictures,” he said, “as well as negatives, and for them to be erased from all hard drives, jump drives and internet storage sites you may have backed them up on.”

“You sound as though you don’t find Sue Sylvester trustworthy,” Sue said.

“I find anyone who speaks in third person to be suspect,” Bob agreed.

“You may have a point,” Sue acknowledged. “Fine. Come to Lima. I’ll hand over the pictures.”

“All back-up copies destroyed,” Bob reminded her, “or else.”

“Or else what?”

“You aren’t the only one with pictures,” Bob said before hanging up.

It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, and Lima wasn’t _that_ far from Chicago.

*

Sue was just how he remembered her: all tracksuit and bluster.

A team of cheerleaders that reminded Bob of some of the more professional bodyguards he’d seen at events like the VMAs escorted him to Sue’s office. They’d swarmed around his car as soon as he’d pulled into the lot with a level of efficiency and expediency that had Bob glancing around for hidden cameras. He had the vague impression that they might actually be borgs masquerading as a cheer squad.

Sue’s office was packed with large trophies, and Bob, after a brief internal struggle, managed to not make a compensation joke.

“Bryar,” Sue said.

“Sylvester,” he replied with a nod.

“It’s been a while,” she said.

“Years,” he agreed.

“I see you’ve chosen Fila,” she said, nodding to his pants.

“I’m not picky,” Bob said.

“So I see.”

Bob crossed his arms.

Sue crossed hers.

“I once strong-armed a group of highly-trained commandos into performing a Village People medley for my own amusement,” Sue said. “I have no doubts about my ability to win regionals. Your assistance in sabotaging my competition was unnecessary but appreciated.”

“Those things weren’t relevant to each other,” Bob said. “And also I’d like a proper thank you.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“I had to listen to a lecture about the importance of puppies and musical expression to get that cease and desist, lady. I want my thanks,” Bob said.

Sue eyed him appraisingly. “I could offer you a romp in my secret sex cave.”

Bob looked around warily.

“There are no trophies there,” Sue said, “only mirrors.”

Bob was in.

*

“Come to our regionals performance,” Sue commanded.

“I would rather be set on fire,” Bob replied, “and I say that as someone who has literally caught fire before.”

Sue gave him a chilly look, which was somewhat less than effective given the fact that her tracksuit was unzipped and she had sex hair. “Our performance will be one for the ages.”

“Old ages, maybe,” Bob replied. He offered her a cigarette. “One more thing. You can’t go around telling people you had an affair with me. It’s bad for my rep.”

“It’s the only thing worthy of mention in your sad, sordid past,” Sue said.

“You’re right,” Bob said. “Banging a cheerleading coach is totally more badass than platinum records.”

“I’m glad you see things my way,” Sue said. “Protein shake? It’ll improve your stamina and rhythm.”

“I’m a _drummer_ ,” Bob said, scandalized. “My sense of rhythm is far superior to yours.”

Sue snorted. “Former drummer, cupcake, and I say that you need improvement. I am a Top 100 recording artist, you know.”

“Oh, like Olivia Newton-John counts,” Bob said. He paused. “I’ll practice more with you if you stop telling people we had a brief affair.”

Sue mulled it over. “Do I get the rights to forge letters from your former band should the situation arise?”

Bob shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

“Then we have a deal, Bryar.”

They shook on it.

The End.


End file.
